


Windows

by Bookkbaby



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookkbaby/pseuds/Bookkbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas’s wing gets hurt on a hunt. Sam and Dean treat his injury, but they have a few questions about the color of the angel’s wings…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Windows

Demons were a pain in the ass at the best of times. Demons armed with magical, angel-killing steak knives were even worse.

Dean reached into his jacket pocket and fumbled with the keys before tossing them at Sam. Sam caught them easily and went ahead wordlessly to open the motel room door as Dean slung the arm of the half-unconscious angel in the backseat over his shoulders. Dean picked Castiel up, wrapping his other arm around the angel’s waist to keep him balanced, and began half-carrying him towards their room.

“I can walk,” Cas said through gritted teeth, just before stumbling over a loose pebble and nearly falling. He would have, if Dean hadn’t tightened his grip.

“Yeah, yeah, you can walk,” Dean said shortly. Cas tried to pull away, to prove his strength by letting go of his human walking stick, but Dean refused to release him. On any other day, any other injury, maybe he would have, but they were leaving a trail of bright, white-hot light behind them. It looked too damn similar to Grace for Dean to be willing to risk making the injury worse.

Cas’s pride would just have to take it.

They passed the threshold silently. Dean caught Sam’s worried glance as the taller Winchester brother noticed just how much light, blood, Grace,  _whatever_  Cas was losing.

“Get the first aid kit,” Dean said. Sam nodded immediately and sprang into action, going into the bathroom as Dean guided Cas over to the bed closest to the door. It was technically Dean’s bed, but Dean, for once, wasn’t injured. He dumped Cas onto the mattress as gently as he could, though Cas still hissed as the motion pulled on his invisible injury. Cas shifted so he was face down, spine slack but elbows underneath him so his face wasn’t smashed into one of the thin pillows.

“How’s he doing?” Sam asked, bringing the first aid kit to Dean. It was already open, everything that Dean might need to patch the wound separated out from the mess; disinfectant, bandages, gauze pads, even a needle and thread.

“I don’t know,” Dean replied, staring closely at Cas’s back. The angel was injured, that much was clear from the droplets of light leaking from God-knew-where and the pained breaths he took, but he didn’t have a single visible scratch on him.

Dean knew he was hurt, knew he had seen Cas get stabbed, but everything had happened so fast and the demon-blade the black-eyed bitch had been using had vanished in a flash.

“I’ll be fine once the knife is removed,” Cas said, voice clipped and tight. “I can’t reach it, but once it’s pulled out, I should be able to heal myself.”

“That’s great and all, but where’d it go in?” Dean asked. He half-thought Castiel’s coat must be hiding it, but while the coat was large, there was no way a knife could be sticking out somewhere without Dean seeing it. He hated worrying and he hated snapping at Cas like this, but still more light was leaking out of the angel from some unseen cut and it was setting Dean’s teeth on edge.

Cas was quiet, shoulders tense, and Sam shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

“Cas, we can’t help if you won’t tell us,” he pointed out. Cas sighed and seemed to slump and shrink in on himself.

“… my left wing,” he said quietly. Sam inhaled sharply.

“Your  _wing_?” Dean demanded, sudden fury welling up inside him. The demon responsible was dead, sure, Dean had ganked her himself seconds after she’d attacked Cas, but the thought brought him little satisfaction now.

Cas nodded, face still pillowed by his forearms.

“I’ll need to bring them to this plane,” he said. “You won’t be able to interact with them otherwise.”

Dean saw Sam opening and closing his mouth, a gleam in his eyes that said he was excited despite himself, and for a moment Dean remembered how excited Sam was to meet angels, real angels, and wondered how his little brother felt now that he’d get to see a real angel’s wings. Dean was more than a little curious himself, though he would have preferred to see something like this, a glimpse of what Cas really was rather than just the flesh shell he inhabited, under better circumstances.

Speaking of ‘seeing’…

“It won’t burn our eyes out?” Dean asked. Cas nodded stiffly.

“I should be able to manifest them safely,” he said, regret heavy in his voice. Cas hesitated, lifting his head off his arms and looking at Dean. There was an uncertain shine to his eyes, almost a kind of fear, and Dean’s brow furrowed. What the hell did Cas have to be afraid of? Boiling their eyes out of their heads, like he’d done to Pamela?

“I might be able to reach the knife,” Cas said suddenly. “If you and Sam could leave for a few minutes-“

Cas sounded unconvinced and Dean scowled.

“I trust you,” he said defiantly, firmly. Cas looked away from him for a moment, then glanced back, and then to Sam as though requesting his help.

“We both trust you,” Sam said, smiling encouragingly. Cas looked down, like that wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear.

“My wings will not be what you’re expecting,” he said, equal parts a warning and a hope that that would convince them to exit the room while he licked his wounds. Dean felt his resolve to stay harden into diamond.

“Got it, your wings won’t be fluffy and white,” Dean said. “Come on, bring ‘em out.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam hissed reproachfully as Cas flinched. Dean felt a brief stab of guilt; he had no idea why Cas was so sensitive about the color of his wings, but he clearly was and Dean hadn’t meant to hurt him, just get him going. He opened his mouth to mutter a quick ‘sorry’, but then Cas took a deep breath and his wings  _unfolded_.

There was no other way to describe it. First, Dean and Sam were looking at the tan expanse of the back of Castiel’s trench coat, then there came the faintest outline of feathers that slowly grew darker and more defined as Cas flexed his wings and spread them wide.

Dean noticed immediately why Cas had warned him about the color. Every image Dean had ever seen of an angel showed downy, fluffy wings in bright shades of purest white. Castiel’s wings were neither white nor brightly colored; hell, they weren’t even a solid color.

His wings were predominantly a forest green color that sent a thrill of possessive satisfaction through Dean, though he had no idea why. He shook the feeling off and stared closer, unable to help himself. There were patches of darker green shot through with brown, and a few clumps of lighter, blue-green feathers. There were several splashes of dark red stains and a few sections that were a brilliant white, so bright it hurt to look at. There were some feathers, mostly near the tips and edges of Cas’s wings that looked almost burned; they were dark black and tattered, and there was an ash-grey overlay on the groups of feathers nearest the ink-dark patches. Other colors flashed through whenever the feathers shifted, but they were all too quick for Dean to catch more than a glimpse of gold-silver-amethyst-jade whenever it happened.

They were the most gorgeous things Dean had ever seen, the patches random but somehow right and so perfectly  _Cas_.

Dean had no time to dwell on it, though, as Cas made a muffled, pained noise and extended his left wing. Dean could see the hilt of the small dagger nestled between a few of the longer feathers, light leaking weakly around it, and he could have punched himself for forgetting (however briefly) why Cas had his wings out in the first place.

He stepped forward and gingerly pressed a hand to the forest-colored feathers next to the injury. Cas inhaled sharply, in what Dean figured must be pain, but he didn’t retract.

“Sorry, buddy, but I’m going to need my hand here to get this out,” Dean said, touching the hilt of the dagger lightly.

“Do it,” Cas said tersely.

Dean glanced at Sam, who was staring with fascination and a touch of the old fanboyish awe at Castiel’s wings.

“Get ready to hand me the Neosporin,” Dean said, more to make sure Sam was paying attention than because he thought Sam would forget. Sam jerked his gaze towards Dean and nodded.

“That won’t-” Cas started to say, but then Dean gripped the dagger and gently began to pull and Castiel’s words cut off in a hiss. The blade came out easily, much to Dean’s relief, but then white light came pouring after it and he yelped and slammed his eyes shut as they began to water. He blindly groped for the wound and put his hand over it as if to hold the Grace inside. His hand tingled, but the lightshow was over.

Dean opened his eyes and tossed the knife onto the other bed for later study. If this thing could hurt an angel, it was worth having around, if only to keep it out of the hands of demons. Also, though Cas was all right, the rest of his family had a tendency towards dickishness.

“My apologies,” Cas said, voice tight.

“It’s fine,” Sam said. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see Sam blinking rapidly to clear away the effects of the Grace flare. “Here.” He handed Dean the small tube of disinfectant gel, but Cas was moving under Dean’s hands, shaking him off.

“That isn’t necessary,” Cas said, folding his wings against his back and unintentionally dragging several inches of soft feathers through Dean’s fingers. Grace flashed briefly and then it was gone, concealed by the fold of Cas’s wing. Dean drew his hand back as Cas sat up, hand and tingling for an entirely different reason now. “Bacteria wouldn’t survive being exposed to the amount of raw Grace in the wound. The only taint is demonic and I can fight it now that the blade has been removed.”

“Can we get you some holy water or something?” Dean suggested. “Wash it out?”

“Do we need to sew it up? Or bandage it?” Sam asked. Cas shook his head.

“I just need to rest. My wing will heal within the hour,” Cas said. He glanced over his shoulder at the top curve of one of his wings and scowled. “Though I’ll need to keep them on this plane for now.”

“Hey, if you need to, you need to,” Dean said, probably a little too quickly and too eagerly if the surprised look Cas shot him was any indication. Dean shrugged and looked away, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

“I’m gonna grab a beer,” he announced, turning on his heel and walking the few steps to the mini-fridge. The wings were gorgeous, yeah, and now Dean could properly appreciate them without the immediate issue of the dagger, but he wasn’t about to tell Cas that his wings were works of art and he should totally have them out more often.

“Cas,” Sam said, tentative but curious. “If you don’t mind me asking, do all angels have colored wings?”

Cas tensed again and his expression went blank. Dean grabbed a beer and shoved the mini-fridge’s door closed with a bit more force than strictly necessary.

“Sam-” he started in a half-hearted rebuke, more because Cas seemed so touchy about the subject than because of the question. Dean was dying to know, especially since he couldn’t keep his thoughts or eyes away from the forest green feathers covering most of Castiel’s wingspan.

“It’s fine, Dean,” Cas said. He looked up at Sam, expression still carefully blank but with a guarded gleam in his eyes. “To answer your question, no. No other angel has wings like mine.” Quieter, as though uncertain he wanted to, he added, “Our wings are supposed to be ‘fluffy and white’. Pure.”

Dean couldn’t pick out his tone; it wasn’t quite pride, not quite shame, but definitely defensive and wistful under a carefully controlled layer of supposed calm. He winced inwardly, feeling even more like a heel for trampling all over an obvious sore spot. Well, it’s not like he’d known at the time!

“Oh,” Sam said and Dean could almost hear the guilt start turning in his head. Sammy had always been the sensitive one. “Then why…” Sam stopped.

Dean was tempted to finish the question now hanging ominously over their heads like a slowly-descending axe, but he was equally tempted to change the topic if it would wipe that vaguely uncomfortable expression off of Cas’s face. His indecision froze his voice in his throat. It didn’t even thaw when Cas glanced at him, blue eyes searching, and then Cas lowered his gaze briefly before looking back at Sam.

“Why are my wings colored?”

Sam nodded slowly, a bit shamefaced. The curiosity was almost unbearable for Dean; how much worse was it for Sam, who loved to nerd out over these sorts of things?

“You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to,” Sam offered with an admirable attempt to keep his reluctance out of his voice. Cas glanced at Dean again and he forced himself to nod.

“Yeah, it’s no big deal. Your call,” he said, dropping his gaze. He busied himself with his beer bottle, screwing off the cap with more care than he usually took.

Cas was quiet for a moment, silence growing long and awkward. Dean fiddled with the cap, not looking up until Cas heaved a soft sigh.

“To understand why my wings are colored, I suppose I should explain why our wings are usually white,” he said. He paused to find the words. “An angel’s wings are a pure manifestation of their Grace; our equivalent to a human soul. The wings are white as long as the angel’s ‘heart’ is pure in devotion to our Father and we love nothing before Him.” Castiel extended his undamaged wing and touched one of the painfully white patches Dean had noticed earlier. “My wings were once perfectly white.” Cas sounded wistful rather than unhappy, but Dean felt his heart twist and looked away.

“Oh, wow…” Sam said reverently. “What do all the colors mean? If you don’t mind me asking,” he said hurriedly.

“It’s all right to be curious,” Cas said. “Some of the colors are how my Grace manifests my scars.” He ran his hand over the black feathers, the ones that looked burned, and the red patches that resembled nothing so much as blood. “Many of my siblings carry similar markings on their Grace, but it rarely manifests as color on their wings unless their heart has already been… changed.”

His hand slid briefly to one of the forest green feathers, expression flickering to pain and back so quickly Dean almost thought he imagined it.

“They are badges of honor, marks from the battles I’ve fought,” Cas said, dropping his hand from his wing and folding it neatly behind his back once more. There was an air of finality about it, a sense that the door of opportunity was slamming shut, and Dean was struck by the sudden certainty that unless he asked now, he’d never know why Cas’s wings were a vaguely familiar shade of green.

He shouldn’t ask, not if Cas didn’t want to tell him, but-

“And the other colors?” Dean found himself saying before he gave his tongue permission to speak. Cas looked up at him, expression so carefully blank Dean couldn’t read anything in it, and he shivered slightly. The last time Cas had been this inscrutable had been years ago, back when Cas was still a Stepford Angel in Paradise and could not only threaten Dean with a return to damnation, but Dean would believe it.

Obviously they were far past all that now, but the reminder was still chilling.

Cas’s expression softened and for a moment, he looked sad and lost.

“The colors are the marks left on me by the things I’ve come to cherish over my Father. The things I’ve found faith in,” Cas said. He looked towards the wall and drew his wings in closer to his body. “Please don’t ask any more.” For all that it was phrased like a request, it wasn’t.

“Yeah… yeah, of course,” Sam said, closing the first aid kit he’d forgotten he was holding. As he moved to walk past Dean and put it back in the bathroom, however, he paused. He peered into Dean’s eyes, brow furrowed. Dean leaned back, returning Sam’s curiosity with a half-irritated, half-confused expression.

“What?” he asked. Sam looked back at Cas, who was watching them intently, then at Dean, then back to Cas.

“Huh,” he said. “That’s weird.”

“What is?” Dean asked, ire rising as he looked from Sam to Cas, who was now wearing an apprehensive expression.

“Sam-” Cas started to say, but too late. Sam was already speaking.

“His wings are the same color as your eyes,” Sam said. Dean felt suddenly light-headed, heart tripping, and so he tried to cover it up with a weak chuckle. Cas’s wings matching his eyes did give him funny, warm feelings in his chest, but that had to be a coincidence. Didn’t mean a thing.

At least, he would have thought so if he hadn’t caught Castiel’s reaction just then.

Castiel looked stricken, like the bottom had just dropped out of his world and he was falling into some kind of black abyss. His wings were drawn tightly to his back, so close it didn’t look natural or comfortable in the least, as though he could erase the color by hiding them.

“Cas?” Dean said, throat suddenly dry. Cas looked at him, sadness and resignation clear in his gaze.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he said, spreading his wings. Dean caught on just a second too late to stop him.

“Cas, wai-!”

There was a soft flapping of wings and then Cas was gone to God-knows-where.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean cursed, turning back to Sam with a dark scowl on his face. Sam looked stunned, like he hadn’t expected Cas’s sudden flight either. “Why the hell did he run off like that?”

“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam replied. His expression turned thoughtful and more than a bit regretful as he looked towards the bed Cas had been resting on moments before. There was a small puddle of rapidly evaporating light on the bedspread, but there was no other trace of the angel. “But… wow. What are you going to say to him when he comes back?”

“About what?” Dean asked crossly, taking two steps forward and then sitting down on the bed opposite where Cas had been. He set his beer down on the bedside table and picked up the remote, determined to find something mindless to watch while he got his irritation under control.

“About his wings,” Sam said, mildly impatient, as though he was explaining a simple concept to a very slow child. “You remember what he said about the color, right?”

Of course Dean remembered. It hadn’t been five minutes ago. The colors represented things Cas loved more than God, so - oh.  _Oh._

Sam must have seen the realization on Dean’s face, because he sighed softly and turned away.

“Just thank about that for a bit before you call him back down,” Sam said, heading into the bathroom to put the first aid kit away.

No wonder Cas had run.

Dean dropped the remote back onto the table and picked up his beer. He drained half of it in one gulp and ran a hand over his face.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“C’mon, Cas, you bastard,” Dean said, glaring up into the night sky as though his wrathful gaze could read Heaven itself. “I’ve been out here for the last three hours, the least you could do is fucking show up.”

The TV in the room had proved no distraction from the thoughts chasing each other around his head. Dean had given up in under an hour and gone out in the Impala to clear his thoughts, though the drive had turned into less of a meander and more of a direct route to the nearest deserted cornfield.

Sam had to be wrong, or they were misunderstanding what Cas had meant, or _something_. Cas couldn’t be in love with Dean, the idea was insane. Whether or not Dean wanted him to be was completely besides the point. Maybe he’d started to believe that good things do happen, but even that was rare and this was so far beyond the league of ‘good’ Dean couldn’t even wrap his head around it. This was the stuff of fairytales and the bad romantic comedies women loved to watch.

“Cas,” he started again, but then he heard it. Wings flapped softly and a gentle breeze rolled by him.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean turned, trying to keep his scowl in check as he laid eyes on Cas. He might have hated waiting for Cas to turn up, but this was a conversation they needed to have now and he didn’t want to scare the angel off or put him on the defensive.

“I’ve been praying for hours,” he said. Castiel nodded, meeting his gaze directly with a regretful expression.

“I know,” he said. He didn’t offer an explanation or try to make excuses, leaving Dean’s ire with no fuel. He sighed and ran a hand over the back of his neck.

“How’s the wing?” he asked. Cas tensed almost imperceptibly.

“It’s healed,” Cas said evenly, watching Dean with something that looked a lot like wariness from where Dean was standing. Dean frowned, irritation rising.

“So,” he said flatly. “About your wings-“

“Just leave it,” Cas said, not quite snapping but certainly not calm. “Please.”

“Why?” Dean demanded, stepping closer until he was up in Castiel’s personal space like the angel so loved to do to him. “Your wings match my eyes, Cas, and maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but you took off like a bat out of hell the second Sam mentioned it, so I’m guessing it does. What was that about?”

“I’m not a flying rodent, nor does your motel room resemble any level of Hell,” Cas said, glancing away.

“Not what I meant and you know it, now stop avoiding the question,” Dean said. Cas looked back at him, a touch of wrath in his eyes. Dean met his gaze head-on and watched as the anger slowly drained away.

Cas finally heaved a quiet sigh.

“I told you what the colors meant,” Cas said. Dean nodded, heart poudning against his ribs as he sensed the angel beginning to capitulate.

“Yeah, in general,” Dean said gently. “You told me what it meant for an angel to have colored wings, but you didn’t tell me what  _your_  colors mean.”

Cas hesitated, reluctance clear in every line on his face.

“Dean…” he said slowly. Dean caught his gaze and held it steady.

“Cas, please,” he said. Cas looked away again; it wasn’t like Cas to avoid Dean’s eyes.

Was Sam actually right? Dean had suspected, given the way Cas was acting, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Not yet.

“‘Eyes are windows to the soul’,” Cas quoted softly, slowly. He sounded unhappy, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to tell Cas he didn’t have to explain if he didn’t want to. “Your eyes are where your soul comes through strongest. It’s what gives the color to your irises, which is probably what inspired the saying.” Cas looked back at him then, gaze intent and Dean felt himself being pierced through by it, but it was exhilarating rather than terrifying. “It’s no coincidence that your eyes and my wings share a color. Your soul is what marked them, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t breathe for a moment, heart thudding in his ears, and he shifted ever so slightly closer. Cas’s eyes widened, but he didn’t back down.

“You said that the marks are from things you love more than God,” Dean said hoarsely, mouth dry. Cas nodded.

“I did,” he replied softly.

“My soul means more to you than God?” Dean asked, forcing himself to snort a strangled laugh, half awestruck and half incredulous. Cas tilted his head, studying Dean closely.

“Is that so hard to believe?” Cas asked him, voice low. “I’ve lost faith in my Father, Dean. You know that; after all the time I spent searching, after everything… he’s not coming back, if he’s still alive. And even if he did…” Castiel’s voice trailed off. “Even if God came back, I don’t think my wings could ever return to what they were.”

Dean’s breath caught.

“You don’t… no, there’s no way,” Dean said, shaking his head in disbelief and trying to stamp down the fierce hope that had suddenly welled within him. This was too much all at once, everything he’d wanted but never hoped to have, something he hadn’t let himself dare think about for fear that the longing would consume any happiness he managed to eke out with nameless, faceless men and women in bars. He dragged his palm over his face. “Fuck, Cas, you can’t mean that.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes.

“Why is it so difficult to believe?” he demanded.

“Because it’s  _me_ ,” Dean shot back, a lifetime of insecurities and doubts and self-loathing dripping off of each syllable. He instantly wished he could recall the words, if only so he’d feel less exposed, but they were gone, hanging heavy in the air between them.

“You are no less worthy of love than any other being on Earth, Dean Winchester,” Cas said with conviction, tone almost dangerously protective.

“Cas, that’s not what I-” Dean started, then cut himself off when Castiel’s gaze narrowed as though he could sense the lie. “Look, you’re an angel. I tortured souls in Hell for ten years and I know you know I enjoyed every damn minute of it.”

“Save your breath,” Cas said flatly. “I’ve seen you at your worst and at your best. I cradled your soul within my Grace as I pulled you out of the Pit and it was I who stitched your body back together. I know you better than anyone, inside and out. If you’re trying to scare me off, you’re wasting your time.”

Dean shut his mouth. Cas looked down.

“I’m aware that it’s impossible,” he said stoically. “You don’t need to try and convince me not to… care for you the way I do. I don’t need or expect reciprocation.”

“Wait, what?” Dean asked, feeling like he’d somehow missed a step somewhere in their conversation. Cas looked up at him again, expression carefully neutral.

“This is me asking you to drop the subject,” Cas said. “I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that my feelings are one-sided. Just because you know now doesn’t mean that anything needs to change… unless you wish it to.”

Hell yeah Dean wished it to, though certainly not in the way that Castiel meant.

“I thought you said you knew me,” Dean said, mouth dry. He stepped closer to Cas, invading  _his_  personal space for once.

“I do,” Cas said, though he sounded less certain than he had been a minute ago.

“And yet you think that this is one sided?” Dean asked, gesturing at the limited space between them. Castiel’s eyes widened.

“Dean?” he said. Dean lifted his hand and cupped Cas’s cheek, feeling a small thrill go through him when the angel’s breathing hitched.

“It’s not,” Dean murmured, eyes dropping to Cas’s lips. He ran the pad of his thumb over the bottom lip, dragging it gently. “One sided.”

When Dean leaned in to kiss him, Cas met him halfway. Dean swiped his tongue over the seam of Castiel’s lips and was granted entranced immediately, hungrily, and Dean let some of his own desire pour into the kiss. Cas’s mouth was hot and wet and perfect and  _clean_ , like the purest drop of rain on a summer day.

Dean could have kissed that mouth forever, despite the drag of stubble and slight chap on Cas’s lips.

Cas pulled back, mouth slick, and stared at Dean with a mixture of hope and shock on his face.

“You love me,” Cas said. He sounded torn between uncertainty and revelation, throwing the words out there to test the waters. Dean swallowed heavily; he couldn’t say it in as many words, not just yet, but they were true, almost painfully so.

“Yeah,” he said.

Some of the shock seemed to be wearing off; Cas’s expression was transforming, real happiness lighting up his eyes and a smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t a huge smile, but it was very  _Cas_  and Dean couldn’t breathe for a moment. It was such a little thing, a simple affirmation, but Cas was looking at Dean like his quiet ‘yeah’ was the single most precious thing he’d ever heard.

Dean wanted to see how many ways he could get Cas to make that expression. He wanted to find all of them, try every method to get this smile until he could do it at will, though he doubted he’d ever get tired of seeing it.

Fuck, but Cas was gorgeous like this and it was turning Dean into a mushy _woman_.

Then Cas pulled Dean in for another, more urgently demanding kiss, and Dean let all worries about whether loving Cas was making him soft be swept aside by the pressure of Cas’s lips on his.


End file.
